“Oh, well, yes, if it’s any pleasure to you.” She took off her apron and seated herself, smoothing the bombasine skirt over her knees.
A tabby cat purred between them; a kettle was singing; and there was a smell of allspice.
“You really don’t know where the girls have gone?” Michael began.
“No more than you do,” she assured him. “But that Sylvia is really a Turk.”
“I suppose Lily didn’t tell you that I used to know her six years ago?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, she talked about you a lot. A good deal more than Miss Sylvia liked, that’s a sure thing.”
“Well, do you think it’s fair for Sylvia to carry her off like this? I want to marry Lily, Mrs. Gainsborough.”
“There, only fancy what a daring that Sylvia has. She’s a nice girl, and very high-spirited, but she is a Miss Dictatorial.”
Michael felt encouraged by Mrs. Gainsborough’s attitude, and he made up his mind to throw himself upon her mercy. Sentiment would be his only weapon, and he found some irony in the reflection that he had set out this morning to be a brutal cynic in his treatment of the situation.
“Do you think it’s fair to try to prevent Lily from marrying me? You know as well as I do that the life she’s leading now isn’t going to be the best life possible for her. You’re a woman of the world, Mrs. Gainsborough——”